by Mary Campisi
Oliver laid a hand on his sister’s shoulder, lifted his water glass, and said, “I’ll definitely drink to that.”
“To finding happiness and holding on,” Rogan said, giving his wife a peck on the cheek and raising his wine glass.
“Happiness,” Charlotte murmured, clinking her glass with Oliver’s.
Rose Donovan latched onto the word and began a heartfelt retelling of life in the Donovan household twenty years ago. The woman could weave a story, pull emotions from deep inside, and make a person believe in family and forever. She certainly had Elizabeth’s attention as the newest member of the Donovan clan held her husband’s hand and listened as though trying to glean a deeper understanding of the man she’d married. Camille and Oliver might have heard the stories before, but they seemed to want to hear them again, especially the parts about their brother and his genuine kindness toward others, especially his family.
Charlotte missed her father, wished he’d found a way back to the days he’d known before that horrible man destroyed them. She glanced at Elizabeth and Rogan, thought about the challenges they’d faced as a couple, the deceit they’d had to overcome…the forgiveness… If she and Tate had been able to set aside their pride and distrust, could they have gotten another chance?
“…and Jonathan loved the holidays,” Rose added, her voice filled with longing. “He said there could be no greater gift than sitting around the Christmas tree with his grandchildren, their little faces bright with wonder as they sipped hot chocolate and listened to The Night Before Christmas. Jonathan might not be here in body, but he truly is with us in spirit.” Her gaze drifted upward, her smile bright. “Oh, yes, indeed he is.”
“He’ll always be with us.” Camille sniffed. “He was the best person I knew. The most honest, too.”
Rose nodded, dabbed her eyes with her napkin. “Yes, yes he was.”
Chapter 15
“Where’s your girlfriend?”
They’d just finished the Thanksgiving feast Astrid had prepared, including a too-large slice of pumpkin pie, when Harrison Alexander asked the question. Tate opened his mouth to give him the same answer he threw at him every time he asked, when the old man’s lips twitched and pulled into a wide smile—maybe the first real smile he’d seen in years.
“I know, I know, you don’t have a girlfriend.” He let out what could only be called a chuckle, another unfamiliar sound coming from a man of restraint and decorum, and said, “Charlotte. Charlotte Donovan.” Pause, a slow sigh. “Beautiful girl, looks like her mother.”
She did resemble her mother…dark hair, almond-shaped eyes, full lips… “You know Rose Donovan?” Of course, his father would know of her, but something in the man’s voice said he’d had conversations with the woman, noticed more than her name.
His father’s eyes sparkled, his voice shifting to a whisper, “I knew Rose.”
Tate waited for him to say more, and when he didn’t, he prodded, “Was it before…?” He wanted to ask, Was it before you and Mom? But he couldn’t get the words out. Something didn’t feel right. Harrison Alexander had cursed the Donovans, especially Jonathan. But he’d known Rose? And the way he’d said it made Tate queasy, almost like he’d had feelings for her.
“Yes.”
One word that could mean anything. “Oh. So, you knew her.” He sucked in a breath, cleared his throat. “Guess I wasn’t aware of that.” Right. Guess nobody was aware of that.
A sigh. “It was a long time ago, before we were both married.”
Tell me more, he wanted to say. Tell me why you look sad when you say her name, or mention it was before you were married. What does that mean? Were you and Rose in love? Did you want to be together? Tell me all of it. But Tate didn’t ask those questions, because deep down, he worried his father might just tell him more than he wanted to know.
A short while later, Tate said good-night and called the nurse to help his father get ready for bed. It wasn’t that Harrison needed much help, just a little guidance and to make sure he took his meds. His doctor had mentioned a return to work, but Tate rejected that idea, citing the man’s need for rest. But the truth was, he wasn’t sure the board would let him come back. If they did, under what circumstances? And what did that mean for Tate? He supposed he could return to Chicago and pick up where he left off with the real estate development company and his life in general.
But how was he supposed to do that with Charlotte Donovan haunting him? In Reunion Gap, he ran the risk of seeing her every day, and while he dreaded admitting it, he wanted it to happen. Hoped it would. He’d only seen her twice: once from a distance as she walked along the outskirts of the park, and the other time as she got off work from the factory. When he heard she was working at JD Manufacturing, he had to see for himself, so he’d parked the car a few streets away and walked toward the building. The buzzer sounded at exactly 4:30 p.m. and ten minutes later, Charlotte sauntered out in a hoodie, faded jeans, and work boots, carrying a lunch sack, and looking more like a teenager and nothing like the woman who’d enjoyed his sister’s designer labels.
If he left Reunion Gap, he’d never have to worry about running into her again unless she decided to show up in Chicago like she’d done before. Doubtful. He yanked his coat off a hanger and shrugged into it. The nights were too damn long and lonely in this house, and he had to find a way to occupy his time. But with what? He wasn’t interested in other women, and he couldn’t trust the woman he was interested in. So, where did that leave him? He flung a scarf around his neck, opened the front door.
And there she was, his own personal torment, standing three feet away.
“Charlotte?” His damn heart pounded so loud, he was certain she could hear it.
“Do you have a minute?”
Her hat and coat were dotted with snowflakes, her boots covered with the white stuff. And her cheeks? Beet red…her nose, too. Tate ignored her question, glanced past her to the circular driveway. “Where’s your car?”
Those green eyes settled on his scarf. “At my mom’s. In the garage.”
“You…walked here? From the outskirts of town?” She’d better be joking.
She lifted a shoulder, slid her gaze back to his. “It’s a beautiful night, lots of fresh, crisp air…”
“Come inside before you get frostbite.” He stepped back, waited for her to enter. This was why he could not have a normal relationship with the woman. She wasn’t normal. Tate let out a sigh, said, “Hand me your coat and get out of those boots.” He stared at the sturdy boots with clumps of snow in the laces. Before he could consider the idiocy of what he was doing, he knelt and began untying the laces.
She almost kicked him trying to get away. “I can remove my own boots,” she said, a hint of irritation sifting through her words. “Besides, what I have to say is only going to take a minute, and then I’ll be on my way.”
He clamped a hand around her ankle, looked up. “On your way? Back in the snow for another three-mile trek? Are you trying to annoy me?” Tate didn’t wait for an answer but proceeded to unlace the first boot. When she tried to step out of it, she had to lean on his shoulder for balance. Her touch shot through him, torched his senses. Charlotte Donovan was dangerous to his common sense, definitely to his heart. And yet, when he touched her ankle to guide her foot from the boot, he forgot about all the reasons he’d avoided her and how they should not be together. When he stood and took her coat, his hand brushed against hers, and he didn’t miss the sharp intake of breath or the faint sigh that followed.
No sense denying the attraction was still there. The big question that loomed between them as he hung their coats and led her to the living room was the one he didn’t have an answer to—what were they going to do about it? Getting involved with her on any level would leave him open and exposed. He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t do it.
“Sit by the fire and warm up. I’m going to grab you a blanket.”
She frowned, rubbed her hands together, blew on them. “I don’
t need a blanket. I don’t need any of this.” Charlotte stared at him. “I just spent the entire afternoon with my family, stuffing myself with food I didn’t want.” A raised brow, followed by “When have you ever known me to resist food?”
Okay, he should not smile, but he couldn’t help himself. The woman loved her food. “True.”
“Yeah, well, I had two helpings of everything, even the cranberry sauce, and I don’t even like the stuff.” She let out a disgusted sigh. “And don’t get me started on the desserts. Why would I feel the need to eat pumpkin pie, macarons, and a double fudge brownie?”
This was the Charlotte he missed. The one who made him laugh with the sarcastic comments blended with humor. Like she did now. Damn, not good. But he couldn’t help himself. He hadn’t had a decent laugh in too long—since the day they split. Tate rubbed his jaw, added an implausible excuse for gorging on the meal. “Well, it’s not like you were trying to fit into that red-sequin gown.”
His comment sucked the color right out of her cheeks. “Yeah, not like that.” She cleared her throat, all humor gone with his ill-suited joke. “Did you get the clothes? I’m guessing you did because Camille said she’d deliver them. I should have checked, but…”
“I got them.” All six boxes of Meredith’s clothing, folded and organized. “You know, you didn’t have to return them. It’s not like she’d know.”
“I did have to return them,” she said, eyes bright, voice firm.
She meant because he’d accused her of going after the high-end, designer lifestyle, including his sister’s clothes. “Well, if you ever want to borrow any—” he pointed a finger toward the stairs “—they’re sitting in her room.”
“No, but thanks.”
The sizzle he’d felt when he touched her had evaporated, replaced with an awkwardness that was unfamiliar to him. When had he ever had a problem talking to women? Never. But then, Charlotte wasn’t just any woman. “Can I get you a drink?” What he meant was, Can I get a drink because I really need one?
She shook her head. “No, thanks, but help yourself.”
He headed toward the side table and poured a scotch neat, took a healthy sip. The burn fueled his senses, spun through him like liquid fire. “Sure you don’t want one of these?” he asked, lifting his glass. “It’ll warm you up faster than the fire.”
Charlotte scrunched her nose, made a face. “Gross.”
Yeah, gross. Though she hadn’t found it particularly offensive when she’d tasted it on his tongue. In fact… Tate coughed, cleared his throat and sat on the chair opposite her. No sense asking for more trouble by sitting next to her on the couch. That was pure danger. “So, you ate half the Thanksgiving feast and decided to walk it off by trekking to my house in the snow?” He rubbed his jaw, tried not to notice how right it felt to have her here, and said, “That was not the most brilliant idea you’ve ever had.” Pause, a soft “You know that, right?”
A small huff, a tilt of her chin. “Fresh air does a body good, and it clears the brain, too.”
“Right, but overexposure to the elements can lead to frostbite.”
She shot him a look that said she hadn’t come to hear his lectures. “Okay, got it. Next time, I’ll drive.”
He could not resist. “Next time?” Did he want there to be a next time? His heart said, hell yes, but his brain said, hell no. There were too many issues between them, too many levels of distrust. Of course, Charlotte ignored his question, leaving him to ponder her motives for the late visit. Had she come to apologize for her actions, beg forgiveness, maybe ask for a second chance? None of those sounded like the Charlotte he knew. She wasn’t a groveler. Tate sipped his scotch, waited for her to tell him why she’d come.
She stood, moved toward the fire, hands extended near the flame, her back to him. “I’m working at the factory,” she blurted out. “Day shift mostly.”
Tate acted like he hadn’t heard the news. “Do you like it?”
A nod. “It’s decent money, and it’s steady work.” A small laugh. “Plus, I get to wear jeans and thermal shirts to work, and buy candy out of the machines.”
He pictured her raiding the vending machines, smiled. “Every woman’s dream job.”
“Not every woman’s,” she corrected, as though he’d been serious. “But there comes a time when you have to grow up and do the responsible thing.”
“Like?”
“Like pay bills, get rid of debt.” She turned around, settled her gaze on his chin. “Stop running away. I should have stayed and helped Rogan when he came home, but I didn’t. Instead, I packed up and headed out so fast, he didn’t have time to figure out what was going on. It was wrong.” Her voice spilled regret. “When you aren’t happy with yourself, you keep chasing what you think is the next idea and call it opportunity, but it’s just a way to avoid looking in the mirror.” She dragged her gaze to his, held it. “A few weeks ago, I looked in the mirror and I didn’t like what I saw.”
She meant after their fight, when they broke up. Tate kept his voice even, his words cautious. “So, what did you do?”
Charlotte blinked hard, pinched the bridge of her nose, and for a half second, he was sure she was going to cry. But then she cleared her throat, bit her bottom lip, and continued. “I asked Rogan for a job.” Pause, more bottom-lip biting. “And to help me work on a spreadsheet to get my expenses under control.” She smiled, sniffed. “He was very happy about that. Delighted, actually.”
“Well, he is an accountant.” Tate’s lips twitched. “They like that sort of thing.”
She nodded. “I cut up my credit cards, told him everything I owed, including the collection company.” A long sigh. “Then I listened to big brother’s lecture on accountability and responsibility.” She made a face.” It was painful, but I deserved it.”
Who was this woman who’d turned so logical and…? And why had she done it? “That’s a lot of change in a few weeks.”
“I’m selling my car, too.” She lifted a shoulder, said in a sad voice, “It’s not practical.”
“Charlotte?” When she looked at him, he asked, “Why would you do all of this? The job, the spreadsheet? The car?”
Her bottom lip quivered, and this time a tear slipped down her cheek. She swiped at it, blinked. “Is it not obvious?”
Had she done it for him? Tate stared, tried to read between the lines, but where this woman was concerned, he’d always been off. “I’ve been wrong too many times with you. Seems like my brain doesn’t always process right when you’re around, so why don’t you spell it out for me?”
“You said I wanted your money, that I was rash and impulsive and couldn’t even support myself.” Her voice wobbled. “I do make rash decisions, and I often regret them, but I never cared about money, and I certainly never cared about your money. Most of my life, I’ve wished you were just an ordinary guy, living on the blue-collar side of town, driving a second-hand car. You know—normal.” She let out a long sigh. “But there’s nothing blue-collar or second-hand about you, and that’s always been a problem.”
Tate struggled to take in what she’d just confessed. “So, you’d rather I had no money?”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “That depends on your definition of no money. If it’s downsizing to a six-bedroom, four-car garage, and a vacation three times a year, one of which includes an overseas trip, then that’s a messed-up definition.”
“Oh, I should apologize for my wealth, maybe donate it, so you don’t have to feel bad about it?” People had always judged him, despite his actions or his intentions. As soon as they found out he was an Alexander, they threw the privileged card at him, said his achievements were tainted or not deserving. They implied he was tainted and undeserving, and he’d spent his whole life trying to detach himself from his money and the family name.
“Tate?” She closed the distance between them, stopped when she was a touch away. “I’m sorry. That was unfair and unkind of me, and it wasn’t meant as a criticism. I was trying to
explain what was going on in my head, and how it would have been much easier if we’d been on the same level.” She paused, corrected. “Socioeconomic level, not intellectual level.”
That made him smile. “I’d never think we were on the same intellectual level,” he said, noting the spark in her eyes. “You’ve always been far ahead of me.” The spark flashed, simmered, and she tried to hide a smile, failed.
“Exactly, but your status and wealth were always my issue to deal with, not yours. And every other person in this town who treats you badly because of your money or your name doesn’t deserve a second thought.” She fisted her hands on her hips, scowled. “I intend to set them in their place if I hear a whisper of it.”
“You’ll be my champion? What if it’s coming from your brother?” He rubbed his jaw, waited to see which side she’d take. The banter was interesting, but the issues were far deeper than a few well-placed quips, and they both knew it.
“He’s taken your side on a few occasions.” She made a face. “Apparently, I’ve been a bit too heavy-handed and illogical, as he calls it, and I backed you in a corner when I did what I did, and no guy likes to get backed in a corner, and blah, blah, blah.”
“Are you saying Rogan Donovan, the man who’s hated me since high school and almost broke my nose, defended me? That Rogan Donovan?”
